I'd Rather Be in Philadelphia
by rainwater tears
Summary: AU. “You could never be a rebound.” RoryJess - a rewrite of the past. Philadelphia. Summer 2006.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** AU. "You could never be a rebound." Rory/Jess. Philadelphia. Summer 2006.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Author's Note:** I honestly can't believe I'm getting myself into another multi-chapter "Gilmore Girls" fic after I finally finished "Before Sunrise," but here it is. Spoilers through "The Real Paul Anka."

**I'd Rather Be in Philadelphia**

She makes it official in the minutes before he leaves on his trip, his voyage into the land of irresponsibility and displays of manly stupidity. She uses phrases like "I can't do this anymore," and "I don't think I _can_ forgive you." Then she kisses him on the cheek and bids him farewell. "Have a nice time," she says. "Stay safe." And "I'll move my stuff out while you're away."

--

She goes down late to get the mail. She's been busy packing, wiping away a few stray tears and talking to her mother on the phone. Lorelai is sympathetic, but distracted, Lane is working, Paris is studying. She doesn't have anyone else to call.

She finds the postcard tucked between the water bill and a Land's End catalogue. She drops the mail on the table to examine it, runs her finger over his name in the top left hand corner. Pride surges in her chest, joy, and it only takes her moments to decide. Then she's slipping off her shoes and pulling her favorite summer dress from the closet. It's warm outside, the warmest day yet, and she feels beautiful.

The drive doesn't take too long, which is maybe because she's ignoring several traffic laws and maybe because she feels so light inside. The postcard is sitting on the dashboard in front of the passenger seat, stirring slightly in the light breeze of cracked windows and mid-April sunshine. There's a smile building slowly in her chest. It's pushing at her heart and lungs as it fights its way up her throat and she gives in to it as she takes exit four off the turnpike. When she finds a parking spot right in front of his building she thinks it's probably a sign. Something good is happening.

--

The air inside Truncheon Books is cool and welcoming. Her eyes adjust slowly from the brightness of the street and when she spots him he's standing in the corner talking to Luke. The sense of familiarity is overwhelming and she takes a deep breath.

He notices her after a minute or so and she watches the corners of his lips turn up in a small smile. She crosses the room slowly, maintaining eye contact. She can feel her blood rushing up, pumping through her heart at an unnatural rate. Her face feels warm and flushed.

She greets Luke first, with a big smile. He looks surprised to see her, his eyes flashing between the two of them like he's waiting for some sort of shock, some implosion of the universe. He relaxes. Jess seems calm, happy even. "Rory," he says. "Good to see you."

When they're joined by an awkward and frizzy haired tween that could only be April, he stumbles his way through introductions. "She's actually the daughter of the woman I'm with. My fiancée. Lorelai. You met her that one time - it's kind of complicated," and she seems friendly, if a little odd. There's an uncomfortable silence and then Jess darts off to get something. His hand brushes hers (she's not sure she even felt it, save the ghost of a feeling that remains when he's gone) as he passes, darting up and down the stairs in a fraction of a second. She recognizes the small paperback in his hand and she smiles when he pulls Luke aside.

April is very well-read, she learns, as they stumble through a halting conversation while she watches Luke's back, Jess's face. When they hug she tries to repress a grin. Then Luke is leading April away and they're alone.

"You came," he says, but he doesn't sound all that surprised. She tries to remember the last e-mail she sent him, talk of the paper and classes, mostly.

"You did invite me."

"But I wasn't sure you'd come."

She nods and her hair slips past her ears to hide her face. She can feel a blush rising in her cheeks.

"I'm glad you came," he says.

"Me too."

--

He's busy playing host, most of the night, so she wanders around the place, her eyes hungry, taking in everything. She absorbs context, wades through it, pieces together the person he's become. She tries to plot out conversations in her head, stories to tell him, anecdotes, like Paris with her note-cards and neuroses. When he finally catches up, a little out of breath and exhilarated by his own success, she forgets them all. "Hi."

"Hi."

Conversation comes easily. They get through pleasantries fast, touching on Lorelai, on Luke, on Lane and Zach and Paris and Yale and does she have everything sorted out now? She nods, confident. "Yes. Everything is very sorted." He smiles and makes a joke about the DAR. She laughs.

Most of the crowd has left now, just his friends in the corner, debating with the god-awful poet and a couple hangers-on. Teenagers dressed like twenty-somethings trying to fake sophistication. He grabs a couple of stools and they sit down to talk—really talk—and laugh—really _laugh_—and she realizes she forgot he could be like this. Laid-back, happy. The poet leaves, Jess's friends not far behind (they pause, momentarily. "Hey, we're hitting that bar we're not calling Cedar Bar Redux. You coming?" but he shakes his head, "no"). She thinks about Finn, Colin, Robert. Logan. Wonders if they've landed, yet, if they're doing something stupid, yet. She thinks, probably.

Then they're alone.

"You look good," he says. "Very…editorial."

"Editorial?" She laughs. "I don't know about that."

"So what's it like? Editor of the Yale Daily News. That's got to feel good."

She nods. "It does. I don't get to write as much as I'd like. I'm mostly assigning and motivating. Hand-holding and re-writing."

"Yeah, and you love it. Every minute of it. Come on, tell me you don't."

She doesn't say anything, just smiles and tilts her head and then he's leaning forward, his hands on her knees, her hips, her waist. His lips on hers. She falls into the kiss like she's seventeen again, losing herself to the same lust that used to confuse her, consume her. It feels new and familiar at the same time, simultaneously scary and reassuring. She's the first to pull back, her hands on his shoulders, fingers dancing on his collarbone, their faces only inches apart.

"So apparently that still works," he says, his voice low, a little scratched, the same as when they were teenagers, and she laughs. Her head feels heavy and her skin feels hot. He takes her wrists in his hands, slides their palms together, laces their fingers.

"I'm so proud of you, Jess," she says. "You're really doing something with your life. It's amazing." He looks like he's blushing, she can't quite tell in the low light of the shop. "It really is."

"And what about you?" he says. "You're back at Yale, still on track to graduate with the class of 2007, right? I'd say that's an accomplishment."

She ducks her head. "Yeah." He nudges her knee with his fist and she looks up again. His eyes are dark and burning. "I couldn't have done it without you."

"Me neither."

And then he's kissing her again. His hands grip her hips, his fingers warm and strong as they find purchase on the soft cotton of her dress and he pulls her towards him, brings his hands up to trace her jaw, her shoulders. His tongue glides across her bottom lip, her teeth, and she moans somewhere deep in her chest. She leans forward, grips his arms and pulls him up with her, presses her body against his, his body against a shelf. She wraps herself around his neck. She'd forgotten the way they fit together, the ease that came with touching him. When she was young it was a method of discovery, now she knows the steps, the rules. He catches her lip in his teeth and she forgets them.

She pulls back, struggles to take in air. His lips trace the skin behind her ear. "Rory?" he says between kisses.

She tries to say "mmhmm," but his tongue catches her pulse point and it comes out as a slow moan.

"When you say everything's sorted…that's _everything_, right? You're not still dating that—"

She cuts him off. "I broke up with him." She smiles, still breathing heavily. "This morning. He cheated, not this morning, he cheated a few months ago, but I broke up with him this morning. I tried to forgive him, but…" she shrugs. "Things weren't right. I didn't love him like I thought I did."

He nods, takes her face in his hands. "I don't want to be just a rebound, Rory," he says. "I can't do that."

She's never seen this look on his face before, this calm sincerity. It had always been urgent before, rushed. He was the jump first, think later sort of guy. Now he's so grown up.

"You could never be a rebound."

--

The apartment upstairs is a mess. Clothes, dishes and books litter every surface. A hallway to the left leads to three untidy bedrooms and a bathroom. To the right is a small kitchenette. The common area is home to a couch, a TV and more bookshelves than she's ever seen outside a Barnes and Noble. "Still reading, then," she says. He laughs.

"I've never seen you…happy."

"I figured it was time I tried something new."

"Had enough of Mr. Jess 'I Hate the World' Mariano?"

"Something like that."

He leads her over to the couch and pulls her down next to him. "So, catch me up. What have you been up to besides school and the paper…and dumping smug, rich assholes?"

"Not much. School keeps me pretty busy."

"No more felonies, I assume."

"Nope, and I've finished my community service, too. Mom made me promise I'd never steal a boat again…and then she threw me a party."

"Sounds like Lorelai."

"Indeed."

They talk till it's late, talk about everything and talk about nothing. He tells her about the book he's writing, all short stories, and she listens and comments and laughs. "There's one about Kirk," he says. "And one about you."

His roommates stumble in a little past one, tipsy but standing upright. "Who's the girl, Jess?" one of them asks, then disappears down the hallway before he can answer. Her head feels heavy when she lays it on his shoulder and wraps her fingers around his. "Tired?" he asks, and she nods. He stands, pulling her up with him, and leads her down the hall.


	2. Chapter 2

I swear I started working on this chapter the same day I posted the last one, I just…I didn't quite finish it until this week. But I did finish it! And there are more to come. Chapter three is already in the works, and I've suddenly got so many ideas for what to do with this story. It's nice to be writing something with an actual plot for once.

Anyway, here you go, and thanks to **Nicolle**, because she beta-ed and because she's awesome.

**Chapter 2**

She wakes up a little past ten on Saturday morning. She's still in her cotton dress, lying across most of an otherwise empty double bed. When she sits up she feels dizzy and unbalanced, like a hangover that doesn't hurt.

She stumbles down the hallway, one hand tracing the wall, half-blind from sleep, still piecing the previous night together in her mind. There'd been Jess, there had been a couple of intoxicating kisses, there had been talk and there had been laughter. Then her eyes had grown heavy and he'd whisked her off down the hall to his mess of a bedroom. He'd tucked her in, kissed her forehead like she was a small child, then disappeared back down the hall.

He's sitting on the couch, hyper-focusing on a laptop on his lap. She pauses to watch him before wandering across the room to sit down beside him. "Whatcha working on?" she asks and he jumps.

"You're up!" He smiles. "And your hair is a mess."

She reaches up to run her fingers through the tangles. "Yuck. Morning Head." Her hand moves to her mouth to guard her teeth. "And Morning Breath. I don't suppose you have a spare toothbrush?"

He sets aside the laptop, the screen turned away so she can't see what he was typing, and rises, his fingers encircling her wrist. "There should be one in the bathroom."

He leads her back down the hall and into the bathroom, a crowded room, even with just the two of them and an army of hair products. He digs through the medicine cabinet while she sits on the edge of the counter, her bare feet dangling and her toes brushing the cold tile of the floor, back and forth and back and forth.

When he resurfaces with a blue plastic toothbrush, still in its wrapper, and a small tube of toothpaste she offers a close-lipped grin. The tap water is tinny and mixes a metallic flavor in with the mint.

She returns to the living room with fresh breath, a clean face and her hair brushed out with a comb she found on the counter beside the sink. He's back on the couch, his laptop put away and a book in his hand. From across the room she can see the familiar cover of Jitterbug Perfume. There's a part of her, deep down, that wants to bounce her way back across the room and into the seat beside him, to curl into the crook of his body and give into something young and awake inside her. Instead she steps cautiously, her bare feet silently padding through the plush carpet, and sits down in the chair across from him.

There had been no promises made the night before, only an assurance that she would give things a chance. Terror is pressing against her ribs and rising in her chest as she waits for him to look up.

He notices her when he reaches the bottom of the page, and lowers his book to look her in the eye. "Morning."

"Morning." She smiles and a bit of the air she's been holding inside floats out into the atmosphere, seeking a new home.

"How are you?" he asks.

"Pretty good." She runs a hand through the length of her hair and cups the back of her neck in her hand, leans forward to prop her elbow on her knee. Her breezy cotton dress slides against her skin a bit. "And yourself?"

"I'm doing okay."

For a moment, neither of them know what to say. She leans back and pulls a book off the table beside her, a battered Vonnegut. She runs her finger along the cracked spine and then flips open to a random page. "So how many people live here?" she asks. "I seem to recall a train of strapping young men passing through last night."

He laughs. "There's three of us right now, but occasionally there are a few extra guys who crash on the couch or the floor. We're a sort of stopping-off point for a lot of people."

She nods and sets the book down. "That's pretty cool. Very bohemian-writer-slash-struggling-artist."

"Something like that." The silence rises up between them again, a sort of mountain of word-less-ness that's a little like suffocating. She clears her throat just to make a sound.

"So, I don't know if you have plans for today or—"

He cuts her off. "No plans. I mean…I should probably help clean up downstairs, but." He shakes his head. "Did you want to do something?"

She nods. "That could be nice. I'd kind of like to get my hands on a change of clothes. And maybe a good cup of coffee."

--

It's another warm day, warmer than the day before, even, and they walk down the street to find her something to wear. Half an hour later they're leaving the Gap, she in new jeans and a plain blue t-shirt and with her dress in a bag. He puts his arm around her shoulders as they turn the corner and pulls her close.

"So what do you want to do today?" she asks, leaning into him just a little bit.

--

They stop for coffee at Starbucks and then he leads her into his favorite book store, a hole in the wall next door where she finds him a used copy of an Ian McEwan book she knows he probably hasn't read yet and he chooses a battered copy of How We Are Hungry for her. They swap at the register and flip through their new books immediately.

"What makes you think I haven't already read this?" she asks as the bell rings their departure to the dusty bookshelves.

"Just a hunch," he tells her. "And the last time we discussed him you told me you couldn't stand Dave Eggers, that you didn't like his style or his voice and that you couldn't read anything he wrote that was longer than a couple pages. I'm just trying to increase your knowledge base."

She gives him a light shove. "I'll have you know that seventeen-year-old me didn't know what she was talking about, because eighteen-year-old me thought he was brilliant and twenty-one-year-old me agrees." She laughs. "But you were right, I haven't read this one, yet."

"Good."

--

They eat lunch in a sandwich shop across the street from his apartment. She settles against his arm in the dimly lit room and bites into her roast beef on rye. The restaurant bustles with Sunday traffic.

"So, last night," she finally says when she's finished half her sandwich. "That was new…in an old sort of way."

He nods with his mouth full of turkey and swiss, chews and swallows. "It was."

"I wanted to…" She sighs. "That wasn't why I came yesterday. Which isn't to say it wasn't great, because…good night. But I just wanted you to know. I didn't come to see you because I wanted something from you or because I was expecting anything."

"I know. I mean, I wouldn't think that."

"Good." She nods. "I just came because I wanted to see you. And to see what you do."

He smiles at her. "Well I wanted to show you what I do. So I'm glad you came. And because of the other thing, even though it wasn't necessarily intended."

She smiles back. "So, what you said, about not wanting to be just a rebound." He nods. "I don't want that either, I really don't. And I don't want you to think that just because I only just broke up with Logan that means I'm, I don't know, weak or something. The thing with Logan was a long time coming and I'm glad it's over."

"Well, I can't promise that my opinion is unbiased, but I'm glad, too."

"Here's the thing, though."

"There's a thing." He says with another shallow nod. "I can't say I'm surprised."

"There is a thing, and it's kind of a big thing." She takes a breath while she tries to put the words together. "I've been with Logan for almost two years. And those two years weren't all bad. And, apart from my freshman year of college, I haven't ever really been…on my own. I was with Dean and then I was with you and then I was in this holding pattern for a year and then I was with Dean again and then Logan and—"

He cuts her off. "You were with Dean again?"

She glances away and then looks him in the eye. "Yes. Briefly, at the beginning of my sophomore year." She sighs. "It's not really a period of time I'm proud of."

"I thought he got married."

"He did." She looks down, fiddles with her fingernails and the hem of her shirt. "Hence the not being proud."

"Oh." He leans away from her a bit and rests his hands on the table. "You slept with him?"

She nods and tries to make a noise. A strangled syllable emerges and she clears her throat. "Yes. I did."

"Oh."

"And, yeah, that maybe isn't the smartest thing I've ever done. But it happened and I can't just forget about it or make excuses for it. But I also can't let it control the rest of my life. And _you_ can't really say anything about it, because you weren't there and besides," she adds, her voice rising and the words pouring out faster and faster, "it's not like you haven't made your fair share of stupid decisions, Jess, like dropping out of high school and moving to California, for example, or whatever it is that got you sent to Stars Hollow in the first place."

When she stops talking they sit in silence for a minute, her breath evening and her arms crossed over her chest. "I'm sorry," she finally says. "That…wasn't really fair."

"We never really talked about that," he says.

"What?"

"We never really talked about it, me leaving. I mean, I've seen you, what, four times since then? When I told you I loved you, when I asked you to leave with me, when I brought you the book and…now. This is really the first time we've actually talked since high school."

She nods. "Yeah, it is."

"I'm sorry I left the way I did."

"Yeah."

"And I'm sorry I never called after, or wrote. I didn't really know what to say to you and I was in my angry, surly, the-world-can-bite-me phase."

"That was an awfully long phase."

He laughs and the air seems to thin a bit. "You're right about stupid decisions and I really don't have any right to judge you."

"No."

"I'm just wondering…why?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. I really don't." She sighs and runs her finger along the collar of her shirt. "I was lonely and mom was busy falling in love with Luke and you'd just showed up out of the blue again and brought back a lot of memories and repressed emotions and Dean and I were carrying on this secret friendship because Lindsay didn't like me…I was weak and foolish and I wanted to believe I was making the right choices with my life."

"And now?"

"And now I realize that there should have been more to it and that I helped destroy a marriage and that, really, that entire year, from the moment I decided to sleep with Dean to my decision to _steal_ a _yacht_, was full of mistake after mistake and that, maybe, Logan was one of them."

"I still can't believe you stole a yacht."

"Get in line. I think it's a pretty long one."

"So," he says, leaning in and brushing a strand of hair back behind her ear, "I believe you were talking about a 'thing' before we got sidetracked."

She nods. "I was."

"I don't suppose there's any chance I'm going to like this 'thing.'"

She shrugs. "Probably not." She reaches for his hand. "What I was saying was that…I've never really been alone. And I need to figure out how to do that, I think, before I spend another two years in a relationship. Even if I think it would probably be a pretty good one."

He nods. 

"And that doesn't mean never. It means…that I think we should be friends. For now."

"Friends?" 

"Yeah. Friends." She smiles. "Friends who actually talk to each other and share books and could maybe someday exist as something more than just friends."

"I think that might be nice."

"You do?" 

"I do."

She grips his hand a bit tighter. "That's good. I'm glad."

--

The sun is peering over the top of his building when he walks her to her car. "I had a really good time today, Jess," she says as she unlocks the door. "We should do it again."

He smiles. "I'd like that."

"Maybe you could come visit me next time. I could show you around New Haven."

"Have you actually learned your way around New Haven?"

"A bit. I'll have to, I guess." She shrugs. "I should probably call Paris and Doyle, make sure they're okay with me moving back in."

He laughs. "That might be a good idea."

She nods. "I guess I should probably get on the road. I have an early class in the morning." She reaches out a hand to cover his where it rests on the hood of her car. "Call me soon. I want to hear what you think of Atonement."

He nods. "Well, you better read the Eggers book. Prepare a few thoughts on his prose style." He nudges her. "Maybe even write me a book report. I warn you, I'm a harsh grader."

"Goodbye, Jess," she says with a laugh, settling into the driver's seat.

"Goodbye, Rory."

She watches him in the rearview mirror as she drives away.


	3. Chapter 3

I probably shouldn't be posting again so soon. You guys'll think this is going to keep happening and…well, I make no promises. Although I have almost finished writing chapter 4. Again, no promises.

Like in the first chapter, some of the dialogue here has been stolen (Rory's toast) or changed a bit (Lorelai's toast). This time we're working off of episode 6x19: "I Get A Sidekick Out Of You." Which means this is Lane's wedding. And, as I'm trying to fix the "Logan Problem," I'll also be fixing the "Christopher Problem." Because Logan wasn't the only thing wrong with season 6.

Once again, for**Nicolle**, who continues to be awesome.

**Chapter Three**

Her phone, a new Sidekick from her father, rings a little after midnight on Thursday. The sound of her ring-tone echoes around the room and bounces off her boxes, still packed and stacked like stairs beside her bed.

"Jess," she answers, not bothering to check the caller ID. "Do you not have any other friends?"

His laugh sounds closer than Paris and Doyle in the next room. "I don't, actually," he tells her, "and thanks for pointing that out, by the way, it doesn't make me feel at all sad or pathetic."

"Oh, well, in that case, I'll let you make up some imaginary friends. You can tell me all sorts of stories about them and pretend like they're real and eventually it'll turn into a sort of schizophrenia. It'll all be very Russell Crowe."

"Well, glad to know you care, at least."

Her whole face is lighting up in a way it hasn't in what seems like ages, and she rolls over onto her side, cuddling the blanket to her chest. "So, what's new since last we talked?"

"Umm…not much. I was just…"

"Bored?"

"Pretty much." She hears him take a deep breath at the end of the line. "And you? Anything new since this morning?"

"Well, I solved all the problems in the Middle East after lunch and I knocked off the common cold between dinner and dessert, but besides that, no…I had a pretty slow day."

"So long as you had time for an afternoon nap."

"Oh, I did. And I even started studying for finals. That's something I really did, outside of Imaginary common-cold-fighting land."

"Good for you."

She allows her eyes to close as she breathes in. "So did I tell you Lane's getting married this weekend?"

"I think you mentioned it." She can hear him shuffling at the other end, probably flipping through a book.

"It's kind of freaking me out."

She hasn't told anyone this, yet, but the idea of her best friend getting married terrifies her. "I've known Lane since we were five. She was the first person I told…everything to. Except my mom. She's _younger_ than I am. She can't be getting married."

"So are you freaked out because you're realizing you're old enough to get married or because you think you're too young?"

"Both…neither." She sighs and turns over again, faces the wall of boxes marked in her careful handwriting. _Clothes. Books – American Authors. Books – Science-Fiction._ "Everything about marriage terrifies me."

"You're only twenty-one. You don't have to worry about it, yet."

She nods into her pillow. "You're right. It's just…been on my mind a lot lately, what with Lane and Dave and Mom and Luke." She sighs. "And April."

"Yeah, what's with that whole long-lost-daughter, mystery-cousin scenario?"

"I have no idea. Luke hasn't really been ultra-share-y with the details. Not even with Mom."

"Well, gee, that doesn't sound like Uncle Luke."

Paris and Doyle are fighting in the next room, or maybe not fighting, but they're doing something that makes a crashing noise and she hears a muffled "ow, ow, OW!" through the wall.

"I think there might be something kinky going on next door," she tells him in a half-whisper.

"This is Paris? Kinky?"

She laughs. "She's…not exactly the girl I went to high school with." It's an understatement, she knows. The Paris she knew at Chilton was equally neurotic, hyper-focused and studious, but as roommates she and Paris had finally found whatever common ground they lacked in high school. They could firmly be defined as "friends" and whatever that entailed.

"So," she says, taking a breath and diving into the deep end, "I don't suppose you'd want to come to Lane's wedding with me." She tries to make her voice sound light, like she isn't asking him out on a date just days after telling him she wasn't ready for a relationship.

"I thought you weren't ready to date."

She sighs. "I'm not. But it's a wedding and what with my best friend being a little busy getting married…I just think it'd be more fun with someone there."

"Would I have to wear a suit?"

"Suit, yes…but you could probably get away with an open collar. It is a rock and roll wedding, after all."

"Yeah, a rock and roll wedding hosted by Lane's mom."

--

Her bridesmaid's dress is beautiful. Silver and stylish and not at all something she'll keep stuffed in the back of her closet to pull out for future children to mock. She's got it halfway on when her new cell phone buzzes on the desk beside her. Another text-message from her father, she's sure.

"Mom!" she shouts as she tugs her tasteful, Mrs. Kim-approved jacket over her shoulders. "Dad wants me to let you know that the library doesn't have the picture book Gigi wanted, but it does have another book that she likes, but it's not her favorite."

"Well, kid, what can I say…your dad likes to keep you informed." Lorelai hops into her room, trying to put a heel on her left foot and slide an earring into her right ear.

"Yes, informed. Exhaustingly, nauseatingly informed."

"So," Lorelai says, sitting down on the corner of her bed, "who is this date you're bringing?"

She looks up, her lip between her teeth and a slow blush rising on her cheeks. "What makes you think I'm bringing a date?"

"Well, you've looked in the mirror at least three times to move individual hairs, you put on a little too much lipstick and you chose skank-heels over the comfy low silver pair you told me you wanted to wear. Besides, you're taking twice as long to get ready as I did, and that _always_ means something is up."

Rory frowns.

"Now, I know that _I_don't have a date tonight, but even then you've been known to beat me by thirty, even forty-five minutes, so, clearly, something is up."

Rory sighs. "Am I really wearing too much lipstick?"

Lorelai grabs a tissue from the Kleenex box on her bedside table and hands it to her. "So who's the boy."

She shrugs. "Jess?"

"I'm sorry…Jess?"

Rory nods.

"Jess Mariano? Luke's nephew, Jess?"

"That's the one."

"When did you and Jess start dating again?"

She rubs the Kleenex across her bottom lip. "We're not. We're just…friends. Friends with—"

"Benefits? You and Jess are friends with benefits?"

"No! We're just friends with…possibility."

"What does that even mean?" Lorelai asks, beckoning Rory to her with another Kleenex and fixing what has become a messy red smudge on Rory's lips.

"It means we're going to see where things go, but right now I'm going to learn how to be by myself for a little while."

"Lipstick?" Lorelai extends her hand for the small tube. She begins to apply it as she offers her advice. "I think it's good that you're not rushing a new relationship, Babe. I really do. But are you sure that's what's going to happen if you have Jess around?"

Rory shrugs. "I have no idea what's going to happen with Jess around." She steps back, her lips now perfect, and reaches for her purse and her sidekick, buzzing loudly against the battered wood of her desk. "But I'm happy when I'm talking to him."

"Well that's all I can ask for." She reaches for her daughter's arm as the doorbell rings. "And be careful."

Rory steps back into the room enough to give her mother a hug. "I will."

--

When she answers the door he's staring at her feet and he whistles at her four-inch heels. He's dressed in a t-shirt with a tie silk-screened on and a fitted black jacket. As he looks up she realizes she's at least as tall as he is in the torturous clacky black weapons, if not taller.

"I'm going to change my shoes."

He follows her into the hall, taking in the changes to the house since he was last there. Lorelai is standing at the entrance to the living room, offering him what passes for a smile, and he smiles back as Rory rushes off towards her bedroom. "Jess," she hears her mother greet him, before she's out of earshot, and by the time she returns in her original silver kitten-heels their conversation is pleasant, if somewhat stilted.

"So where's good old Uncle Luke this weekend?" he asks as they head out the front door and she notices her mother look away.

"He's still on that field trip with April and her classmates," Rory tells him. "He's not getting back until tomorrow."

"Too bad," he says.

"Did you not ask if you could stay in his apartment?"

He shrugs. "I knew where the key was."

Her phone buzzes again in her purse and she pulls it violently from the small bag.

"And here I was thinking you only got calls from me," he jokes.

"I wish." She texts a speedy reply to her father before handing the phone over to her mother. "You are officially on Dad duty, Mom. I can't hear any more about whether or not he has a new mail-man, and the next time he asks me if I think 'fork' is a funny word I might drive to Boston and throttle him."

Lorelai giggles. "You said 'duty.'"

"Ladies and gentlemen," Rory announces. "My mother."

--

"Bet you're glad you changed your shoes!" Lorelai shouts as they run from the Kim house to the church.

Rory's got her fingers laced with Jess's as she pulls him along. "Fifty-eight seats, sixty-two Koreans!" she reminds him and he speeds up.

The first ceremony had been nice, or it would have been if Mrs. Kim and her mother hadn't spent the whole time yelling in the next room and if she'd been able to understand a thing that was going on. The second ceremony, with Lane in her Lorelai Gilmore original and Zach out of a dress was sure to be even nicer, though she knew she still wouldn't understand a word of it. It was comforting to know that the groom wouldn't, either.

They get to the church towards the middle of the rush and she watches her mother and Jess find seats with Miss Patty before going in search of the bride. She finds her in a side room with Mrs. Kim, having what could only be described as "the talk." She waits outside until Mrs. Kim has left.

"You're getting married!" she sings as she enters the room.

"I am!" Lane can't seem to stop smiling and her excitement is like an airborne virus. Rory finds herself grinning, too. Rory snaps a picture of them, all teeth. It seems like seconds before she's walking down the aisle, Lane waiting in the sun outside.

She locks eyes with Jess, sitting in an aisle seat near the front. She shows him a few extra teeth as she passes, then takes her spot across from Zach and Brian.

--

"So where's the open bar?"

He comes up behind her while she's fixing Lane's hair and she jumps. "Jess, don't do that!" she says, but she isn't really angry. "And don't say 'bar.' Not yet, anyway." She clips Lane's hair and says, "perfect."

Lane turns around to face them. "Thank you!" She reaches out to give Rory a hug, then smiles at Jess. "Jess!"

"Lane!" His enthusiasm, Rory knows, is only half mockery. "Congratulations."

"Thanks." Rory's not sure how Lane can form words around her smile. "I should go find Zach. My husband." She makes a high-pitched noise. "I'll see you later!"

"So," Jess says when she's gone. "What's this about not saying 'bar?'"

"We have to wait."

"For what?"

"For Mrs. Kim to leave."

"And what do we do while we wait?"

She smiles and turns toward the gazebo. "Well, first—"

"Rory!" Lorelai is coming toward them from across the square.

"…we find my mother."

"Well that was a successful mission," Jess says as Lorelai joins them by the church. "What now?"

"Now we watch."

Across the street a string of Lane's aunts, uncles and cousins pulls the cover off a buffet table and every relative Lane has in the world (except her grandmother, who is probably already half-way to Korea) lines up to grab their food and run for their cars. Lorelai starts for the table but Rory stops her. "That's not for you."

When Lane's mother is out of earshot and Lorelai's ripped away the bottom of Lane's dress the party begins. She joins Jess at the bar and offers Kirk advice on his "Yummy" Bartending staff while Jess laughs.

"So Troy is 'yummy,' huh?" he asks as Kirk walks away.

"Oh, shut up. It was the only way to get rid of him."

"Whatever you need to tell yourself," he says as they walk back to the table.

Lorelai already has a drink in front of her and she smiles when they sit down. Rory's got her camera out and Lorelai leans over to flip through the pictures with her. Lane in her traditional dress, Lane in her wedding dress, Lane in her shorter wedding dress. Lane with Rory, Lane with Zach, Lane with Mrs. Kim, even. She passes the wedding pictures and finds the pictures from that first night in Philadelphia.

"Who's that?" Lorelai asks as they pass a picture of Rory with Luke and April.

"That's me." Rory sighs. "With Luke…and April."

"Oh." Lorelai sits back a little. "When did you meet April?"

"When I went to Philadelphia to see Jess," Rory says, turning to give Jess a small smile.

"Okay, so…you met April. You took a picture together like you're pals?"

"I went and Luke was there…with April. It was a total fluke. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about it, I just…felt weird."

"Oh, sure. I get it. Total fluke."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she says, standing up. "I'm just gonna go get another drink. Do you want something?" Rory shakes her head. "I'll be right back."

When she's gone, Rory sighs and leans back in her chair.

"So Luke's really keeping Lorelai from April?" Jess asks.

"He is. And it's killing Mom, but she won't admit it." She watches her mother's form retreat towards the bar.

Jess leans forward and places his beer on the table, effectively forging a new conversation. "So, from what I remember, Lane was dating a guy named Dave when I left."

"She was."

"What happened to him?"

Rory shrugs. "He left for college? They tried the long-distance thing for a while, but…it didn't stick. And then Lane realized she had a thing for Zach and…the rest is history."

Zach himself takes the stage to announce the return of Hep Alien and they sit back to watch the band perform. Jess leans over toward her to say, "they're good!" and goose-bumps rise on the back of her neck.

"Well, as I recall, you weren't paying much attention the last time you saw them perform."

"Is this back when they were Follow Them To The Edge of the Desert-slash-the Harry Potters?"

"Yes, but everyone called them FTTTEOTD. Keep up." She grins at him and pushes down other memories of that night. Their fight, his pugilistic turn with Dean, the sight of his retreating back in the red and blue lit night. It isn't a night for revisiting the more unfortunate parts of their past.

--

Kirk fires the Yummy Bartenders around nine-thirty and Lorelai fills a tray with shots of tequila at the bar. She watches her mother down three shots in quick succession and asks Jess to keep an eye on the cheerful drunk while she makes her toast.

"I'm not one for speeches," she says when she gets everyone's attention, the mic booming through the town square, "and I don't have any incriminating pictures of Lane to share. But I do have this letter." She holds up the crumpled pink paper, a relic she's glad she saved, for the whole crowd to see.

"This letter was written in 1995 by one Lane Kim. It was slipped into my hand during a spelling test in Miss Mallen's class. I was so shocked by its contents that I missed the word 'automobile.' O-T-T-O-mobile. That's right, Lane. I remember." She offers the bride a grin and watches Lane's expression. The rise of her eyebrows and the slight flush of embarrassment or too many glasses of champagne.

" 'Dear Rory. How was your lunch? Mine was bad. Did you have ham again? If you did, I am sorry, but mine was worse.'" The language is very much eleven years old and she smiles at the recollection of the day it was written. She had had ham, a particularly bad sandwich from Lorelai's cooking phase, which had never gone beyond the basic brown bag lunch and which had never ever gone well. " 'I thought you should know that today at recess, I decided that I am going to marry Alex Bacchus. He has a very nice head and his ears don't stick out like Roddy Winston's do. I will love him forever, no matter what. See you at Brownies. Love, Lane.'"

Lane doesn't look to embarrassed, just happy, and she realizes, as she refolds the letter, that her fears about marriage, about her age and the way she seems to be speeding through her life, have been calmed since she woke up this morning. "I'm sorry, Lane, I just thought Zach should know that in your heart, he will always be second place to Alex Bacchus and his well-proportioned ears."

Everyone cheers as she finishes her toast and steps down. She sees Lane whisper something to Zach and he laughs, loud enough that it echoes through the square, over the chatter of the assembled crowd.

"They look happy," she says as she resumes her seat next to Jess, who has pulled the tray of tequila from her mothers grasp. He nods.

"How many has she had?"

"Seven and a half."

"Seven and a half?"

"She spilled half of the eighth one on my t-shirt."

She sighs. "Mom, maybe we should get you some coffee?"

Lorelai shakes her head with the dexterity and temperament of a five-year-old. "No. I don't want coffee." She stands up, a bit wobbly in her heels. "I want to make a toast."

Rory gives Jess her best "please help me" look, and he steps forward. "Lorelai, why don't you make your toast to us? While we walk you back home."

"To you?"

"Yeah, tell me and Rory and…we'll tell Lane and Zach."

"You'll tell Lane and Zach my toast?"

He nods.

"Word for word?"

"Yup."

Behind her Rory crosses her fingers. She has only seen her mother drunk a handful of times, and generally nothing beyond a bit tipsy. When Lorelai agrees to the plan, which, Rory has to admit, isn't the best she's ever heard, she's relieved.

Lorelai uses most of her energy walking back to the house, and has trouble focusing on what it is that she wants her toast to be.

"Okay, okay," she says, tripping over her heels. "Say this. Say…Lane and Zach. I am so happy for you." She pauses in the street to take off her shoes.

"I'm so happy for you, because you're happy. And that makes me happy, that you can be so happy. And in love. Because love is great. It really is, love is great, and it's great that you found it. Love."

Rory pulls Lorelai's arm around her neck, helping her to walk in what passes for a straight line.

"And I think it's great that you're married now. Even though you're so young. Younger than Rory, even. Even though I'm not married. I think it's great." She stumbles again, and Rory nearly falls over. Jess reaches for Lorelai's other arm so she's supported between the two of them. "You know who's not getting married?" she asks, turning to Jess. "I'm not getting married." She sighs. "I'm not getting married. Even though I have this ring." She tries to pull her arm back from around his shoulders to show him the ring, twisted around her finger so that the diamond digs into the skin of her pinky. "I have the ring, but I'm not getting married. And I'm _definitely_ not getting married on June third. That ship has sailed." She stops, forcing Rory and Jess to stop with her. "I think I'm going to be sick."

--

They get Lorelai into bed eventually, after she throws up on Rory's sensible kitten heels and nearly falls down the stairs of the porch. Rory changes in her room and joins Jess in the living room with a cup of coffee for each of them.

"So," she says, sitting down on the couch beside him and smoothing her hands over her sushi print pajama bottoms. "That was an interesting night."

"You weren't kidding about your mom."

"I really wasn't."

He takes a sip of his coffee and leans forward to place the mug on a Cosmo magazine, left on the coffee table. "Have you talked to Luke?"

She shakes her head. "I don't want to interfere."

He nods. "I get that." He smiles at her. "So…did you notice how your mom and I got along?"

"I did."

"Weird, huh?"

"Totally." She's grinning at him when her Sidekick buzzes in the purse she left by the couch. "Ugh, Dad again."

When she pulls it out the screen says "Colin," though. She flips it open to read the text message. "Logan 911," she reads aloud.

"What does that mean?" Jess asks.

"I have no idea."


	4. Chapter 4

The stolen lines are from 6x20 this time around: "Super Cool Party People." I don't know why these chapters are coming so fast, but for some reason they are.

Again, **Nicolle** rocks.

Oh, and I'm not trying to diss Christopher. I just didn't like the direction things went with Lorelai, Luke and Christopher, and I'd like to try to fix that.

**Chapter Four**

Rory sits next to Jess while she calls Colin. The connection is fuzzy at best and she can't understand everything he tells her. The gist is that there's been an accident. Logan fell or jumped or something and they're airlifting him to New York.

He thought she should know. He also thought she should know that he thinks she's a whore who is unworthy of his best friend's love.

"What do you want to do?" Jess asks when she hangs up the phone.

She turns to face him, her mouth open and her phone clutched tight in her hand. "I don't know."

He reaches for her free hand. "It's okay if you want to go see him."

"It is?"

He nods. "You were with him for almost two years. I'd be a little worried if you weren't concerned about the guy."

"Yeah." She sits back and leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"I can stay with your mom if you want me to."

She shakes her head. "No, that's okay. I'll stay."

"You sure?"

She nods. "Yeah. I'll go see him tomorrow."

--

They fall asleep together on the couch, Rory's head nestled in the crook of Jess's neck. When Rory wakes, a little after nine, her muscles all ache.

She sits up, runs her fingers through her hair. It's tangled and sticky from yesterday's hairspray. Jess stirs behind her. "Morning," he groans.

"Morning."

"I don't think sleeping on the couch was such a good idea."

"No," she agrees. "Probably not."

In the kitchen Lorelai is already up and pouring coffee down her throat.

"How are you even awake?" Rory asks, shuffling to the table. "Shouldn't you be upstairs, sleeping it off?"

Lorelai moans something that sounds like "too loud."

Jess pours a mug of coffee for Rory and one for himself before sitting down at the table. "I was thinking about helping Caesar out at the diner today. Figured I should stick around until Luke gets back."

Rory nods. "That sounds good."

"Are you going to go to New York?" he asks her.

Lorelai sets her mug down. "You're going to New York?"

Rory sighs. "Logan had some sort of accident in Costa Rica. They were airlifting him to a hospital in New York last night."

"Is he okay?"

She shrugs. "I don't know, I haven't talked to Colin since last night."

"You should go see him."

"Should I?" She sits back. "I mean, I don't even know if he'd want to see me. After the way we left things…" She thinks of his retreating back, the way he departed on his trip with his shoulders slumped and his head down.

Lorelai nods. "Well, you should at least make sure he's okay. That there's someone there with him. Isn't his sister still on her honeymoon?"

"I think she is."

"And Mitchum isn't exactly going to win any awards for parent of the year."

"No."

"Tell you what," Jess says, standing up. "I'll make you guys breakfast while you check on Logan, and then you can decide once you've eaten."

"You're making us breakfast?" Lorelai asks. "When did you turn into Luke?"

Jess shrugs. "Do you have any eggs?"

--

Jess makes them omelettes while Lorelai complains about every bang of the pan and Rory dials first Colin and then Finn. Neither answers.

"Maybe they had to turn their phones off," Lorelai suggests. "Hospitals tend to make you do that."

She nods. "Maybe. Or maybe they're not taking my calls because they're mad at me for dumping their best friend."

"Breakfast's ready," Jess announces. They eat in silence.

--

She decides to make the trip while she washes the plates in the sink. Jess tells her it's a good idea and her anxiety lessens. "I can't imagine he'll be too happy to see me."

He shrugs. "You never know. It's possible."

"Yeah."

She showers, pulls on her favorite jeans and a pink top. Lorelai waves goodbye from the couch where she's recovering with a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin. Jess follows her out the door.

"So I'll probably be gone by the time you get back."

She nods.

"But I had a good time this weekend. Thanks for inviting me."

She reaches out to him and wraps her arms around his neck. "Thanks for coming. Aside from carrying Mom home and rushing off to New York, this weekend was pretty fun."

"It was."

"You want a ride to the diner?" she asks.

--

The drive to the city is long and she gets stuck in traffic by the tunnel. When she finally makes it to the hospital she can't find anyone who knows where he is. They tell her to look for him on the seventh floor, finally, and even there they are unhelpful.

"Excuse me, can someone here help me find Logan Huntzberger!" she finally shouts, a hint of hysteria in her voice. In the car she'd had time to imagine every possibility. Every horrible thing that could have happened during the night, everything bad that could have been made worse.

"He was just transferred out of ICU. Room 713," says a passing nurse.

"How is he?" she asks.

"Are you family?"

"I'm his…well, I'm his ex-girlfriend, but we only just broke up. I'm practically still his girlfriend."

"All I can tell you is that he's conscious right now and that he's in serious but stable condition."

She sighs. "What does that mean? Serious but stable."

"Just what it says."

"But…" she grips her purse a little tighter. "Is it more serious or stable? I mean, which way is it leaning?"

"Sorry," the nurse says. She doesn't sound very sorry. "I can only release more information to family members."

"But he's conscious?"

The nurse nods. "Yes. He just woke up about twenty minutes ago. You're welcome to go see him."

She wanders toward Logan's room, her steps slowing the closer she gets. She can hear Colin and Finn's voices floating out into the hall. "We thought we'd found a solution to the family-only-gets-information thing. We're adopting you," Finn announces.

"Adopting me?"

"Yes. You're going to be the apple of your fathers' eyes," Colin says.

She sighs. Colin and Finn, joking already.

She takes a tentative step into the doorway and knocks lightly on the frame. "Hi," she says when they look up.

"Rory," Finn says.

"Tramp," Colin adds.

"Ace."

Logan doesn't look good. One leg is in a swing, his face is bruised and cut, one of his eyes is swollen. He doesn't look angry, just injured, physically and emotionally.

She approaches the bed cautiously. "I wasn't sure if you'd want me to come," she says as Colin and Finn leave the room.

"I wasn't either."

"I just…the boys weren't answering their phones and I didn't know how you were doing."

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." There's a chair beside his bed, the hard-plastic variety that are always uncomfortable. She sits down. "The nurse told me you were 'serious but stable.'"

"That's what I've heard."

"What does that mean?"

He shrugs. "It means my parachute didn't open all the way and I got a little banged up." He winces as he tries to move. "I'll be okay."

She shakes her head. "I'm so sorry, Logan."

"It's not your fault. I didn't jump off a cliff because you dumped me, I jumped off a cliff because I'm an idiot and my best friends are idiots and all three of us were drunk."

She nods and takes his hand. "I'm still sorry."

"Does that mean you want to un-break-up?"

"No." She lets go.

"I didn't think so."

She stands up from the chair and wanders around the room, taking in the IV, the machines he's hooked up to, the steady aural reminder of his heartbeat. "Where's your family?"

"Well, Honor's still on her honeymoon in Mykonos, and Colin tells me my dear mother checked herself into a spa in Arizona as soon as she heard."

"And your dad?"

"My dad thinks I was acting like a child and he is therefore boycotting my hospital stay."

"He's _what_?"

Logan shrugs. "He told Colin that he wouldn't come see me because he didn't approve in the first place."

"That ass!"

"You can't tell me you're surprised."

The look of half-resignation, half-apathy on Logan's face breaks her heart. "He's your father and you're in the hospital. He should be here."

"That doesn't mean he will be."

She huffs and sits back down. "Do you need anything?"

He shakes his head. "No."

"Do you want anything?"

"No."

"Do you want me to leave?"

He reaches out for her hand. "No."

--

She sticks around until mid-afternoon, getting coffee, fixing his pillows, trying to make up with Colin and Finn and finding out everything she can about Logan's condition. When she leaves she promises to call and check up on him, then dials Mitchum's number as soon as she's out of earshot.

"Mitchum Huntzberger?" she asks when he answers. "Yes. It's Rory Gilmore. I just thought I'd call and remind you that Logan is lying in a hospital bed with a partially collapsed lung and a whole host of other potentially life-threatening injuries and I'm figuring a guy like you, surrounded by nothing but a bunch of terrified sycophants, might not have someone in his life with the guts to tell him what an incredibly selfish, narcissistic ass he's being. So I thought I'd jump on in." She takes a deep breath and then yells, "swallow your pride, get in a car and come down here and see your son! Now!"

--

She stops by the diner when she gets back to Stars Hollow a few hours later, hoping to find Jess waiting tables. It's just Luke, though, and Caesar, who grumbles while he wipes down chairs.

"Hey, Luke," she says, taking a seat at the counter. "How was the rest of your trip?"

"It was good. Lots of farmland, Amish people…" He pours her a mug of coffee. "Donut?"

She nods.

"So guess who was waiting for me when I got back?" he asks, setting the donut down in front of her.

"I'm going to say…Jess?"

"It was."

"I invited him for Lane's wedding." She smiles at him and then takes a sip of coffee.

"I got that." He tosses his rag down onto the counter. "So…are you guys a thing again? Because chaperoning you was hard enough when you were eighteen and didn't have your own apartments."

She shakes her head. "We're just friends." She takes another sip. "And you didn't need to chaperone us."

"Right."

"We're just friends, Luke. For now, anyway."

She finishes her coffee and gets up to go.

"How's your mom doing with that hangover?" he asks as she heads for the door. "She seemed pretty out of it when I saw her earlier."

"I haven't seen her since this morning."

He nods. "Well, I'll be at the house later. Hopefully she's feeling better."

Rory frowns, thinking of Lorelai's words from the night before. "Yeah. Hopefully."

--

Most of the lights are out in the house and she climbs the stairs to find her mother in a dark room.

"You couldn't possibly still be hung-over," she says, her figure silhouetted in the doorway.

"Nope, just tired," says the form in the middle of the bed.

Rory crosses the room to climb in beside her.

"Logan's doing alright."

"Yeah?"

"Well, he was pretty drugged by the time I left, and he's got to put up with Colin and Finn, but the doctor said he was pretty lucky."

"That's good."

"Yeah."

Rory rolls over so she's facing her mother in the dark. "Mom?"

"Yes, Dear?"

"Can we talk about what you said last night?"

Lorelai shrugs. "What did I say?"

"When you were giving your toast—"

"I gave a toast?"

"No. Well, sort of. While we were walking you home, you gave a toast to me and Jess. You wanted him to repeat it word-for-word to Lane and Zach."

"Oh. Really?"

She nods and cuddles a bit closer. "Yup. You were very nice to Jess yesterday. I was proud."

"Well, it's obviously important to you."

"It is." She reaches out for her mother's hand. "Last night. You said, during your toast. You said you weren't getting married."

"I did?"

"You did. You were very certain about it."

"Oh, babe, I don't want you worrying about this."

"Well, tough."

"Ror."

"No, Mom, your relationship with Luke, that affects both of us, and I haven't said anything until now because you didn't seem like you wanted to talk about it, but…I want you to be happy, and I love Luke, and I know you love Luke, but these days he just seems to be making you sad."

"Rory."

"No. You can't deny this one, Mom. You need to talk to him."

"This is his thing, Rory, his daughter."

"And you're his fiancé!"

"I know, but…"

"But nothing. Mom, it's gone on long enough. I don't want you to be sad anymore."

"Yeah."

"Luke said he was coming by the house when he got off work."

"Okay."

"You need to talk to him, Mom."

"Okay."


	5. Chapter 5

Long (long, long, long) time no write. Apologies.

**Chapter Five**

"We need to get you a watch."

"I have a watch."

"Do you know how to read it?"

"What?"

"You're calling me in the middle of the night again."

"Oh."

She was in bed, her light out, her eyes closed, but not asleep when he called. In her head she was turning over the conversation she'd heard the night before, the sound of her mother's voice, the fatigue of it, the frustration, as she confronted Luke. She was trying to forget the way the front door slammed. How it shook the frame of her bed. How the metal creaked as she tried to settle back into it.

"Is it too late? I can call back tomorrow."

"No it's fine. I don't have class until 11." She sits up, turns the light back on. "I was thinking about skipping it anyway."

"Slacker."

She laughs. She hasn't laughed all day. Hasn't said much of anything either. When she woke up her mother was quiet and withdrawn. They drank their coffee in silence. She thought about stopping at Luke's as she left town, thought about trying to fix things, to patch up what she could, but the sign on the door said "closed" when she drove past. Through the window she could see Luke hanging streamers, a frown embedded in his face.

"Are you back at school then?" he asks. She can hear him moving around, maybe in his living room. She can picture him running his hands over the books on his shelves, the possessive way he traces their spines. She thinks about his fingers, the skin of them, always a little rough, the bump along the side of his right middle finger: the product of a tight grip and a propensity for scribbling.

"Yes," she says. "I drove back this morning." She glances around her own room, takes in the dirty beige walls, the small space, cramped with her furniture, her books, her photos and knick-knacks and life. "I figured it was time I unpacked."

"Probably a good idea."

"I always feel better when I'm properly moved into a place." She scratches at her neck, twists her hair up into a knot. "Do you know I've moved about 7 times since high school?"

"That seems excessive."

"It feels excessive."

"I used to move a lot. Back when I was living in New York."

"Yeah?"

"I slept on a lot of couches, or spare mattresses in crowded studio apartments." On the phone he always sounds so close. His voice nestles into her ear, the scratch at the back of his throat, the upward turn of it when he says something wry or sarcastic. The sound of him trying not to smile. "It wasn't a great way to live."

"Look at you now, though." She's smiling. "A good job, a nice apartment. You seem to have it all sorted out."

"Does anyone have it all sorted out?"

"Maybe not."

On the table by her bed there's a paperback, an _Entertainment Weekly_, half a glass of water and small stack of paint samples. She picks them up and rifles through them, holds a couple against the wall and squints.

"I'm thinking about painting my room."

"Yeah? At your mom's?"

"No." She licks her lips. "The one here. At Paris and Doyle's apartment." She shrugs. "My apartment, I guess."

"Do you think you're going to stick around this time?"

She nods, then says: "Yes." There's an avocado green chip that looks welcoming in the warm, late-night lamp light. "Till my graduation, at least." She considers the color, thinks about the things that green means: renewal, awakening. "I'm thinking about green."

"Green is a nice color."

"You want to help me paint?"

..

Lorelai calls her on a Wednesday afternoon. She sounds tired and stressed. Rory doesn't ask about Luke this time. She is still worried she has made things worse.

They talk about the inn, about finals, about Michel's accidental consumption of 2 percent milk and Paris's MCAT preparations. She only pays attention to half the conversation, choosing instead to listen to the comforting sound of her mother's voice as she flicks through a dance review for the paper with her red pen. She revises a sentence, says "that's too bad," moves on to her American Lit notes.

..

Jess turns up right at ten on Saturday morning, two weeks later. She's in her room when he knocks and Paris beats her to the door. The click of each bolt echoes in the apartment.

"I know you," Paris says when she opens the door. "You're the high school boyfriend." She turns to Rory. "He's the high school boyfriend, right?"

Rory nods. "Jess, you remember Paris."

"Of course."

"And this is Doyle." Doyle is watching _March of the Penguins_ again, for maybe the fifteenth time since she moved in, but the sound is turned down low so Paris can focus on studying. She has turned the table into a workstation, covered it in flashcards and surrounded it with whiteboards. There's a diagram of the male reproductive system front and center.

"Nice to meet you."

Doyle nods, but doesn't look up from his movie. Paris is already back to her flashcards, more concerned with the penis than with a surprise visitor.

"We're going to be in my room."

"Yeah yeah," Paris says. "Just keep it down."

Rory's furniture is all piled in the middle of the small room, draped with a large tarp. The floor is lined with an issue of _the Wall-Street Journal_. She's wearing a plain white t-shirt and a ratty pair of jeans and her hair is tied back from her face.

"Before we get started," she says, "I should warn you that I've never done this before."

"Me neither."

"But I did google it, so I know the basic theory."

"The theory of painting a tiny bedroom?"

"Yes. I like to be prepared."

He laughs a little. A friendly mocking laugh. "And so what's the basic theory of room painting?"

They start by washing the walls. They tape the moulding. They prime the walls. They spatter themselves with primer. They order lunch. They eat. They paint the first coat. They spatter themselves with green paint. They joke and they laugh. They finish the first coat and lie back on the crinkling, trampled newspaper as it dries.

"What does this say about us?" she wonders aloud. "Literally watching paint dry."

She has a streak of green running across her right cheek and he has one across his forehead. She thinks about reaching over to run her thumb over it. Thinks about the intimacy of such an action and decides not to. She thinks about her tendency to overthink. Thinks that maybe this is something she should learn: that she doesn't need to plan her every action, to schedule her emotions. Then she remembers the jail cell she landed in the last time she chose carelessness over carefulness.

And then: "Is this your name?"

"Oh." He's found the article, the profile on Mitchum that ran earlier in the week. It's spread open right at the tip of his nose. "Yes."

"You were name-checked in _The Wall-Street Journal_?"

"Unfortunately."

"What's so bad about that? Who's Mitchum Huntzberger?"

She groans. "The man who would take credit for getting me to where I am today. Also known as Logan's father."

"Sounds like an ass."

"He is."

"And he's taking all the credit why?"

She shrugs. "The cold-hard facts are in his favor. He did give me an internship and I am now editor of the _Yale Daily News_." She scratches at a bit of primer peeling along her neck. "But if anything I'm here in spite of him." She turns to look him in the eye. "He told me I didn't have what it takes."

"What?"

"He told me I wouldn't make it as a writer and then I stole a yacht and dropped out of college and joined the DAR." She smiles at him. "And then you came along and knocked some sense into me."

"It was a favor I needed to return." He shifts a little and his arm rests against hers on the floor. His skin feels hot and dry and familiar. "And for the record, you're absolutely going to make it."

"Yeah?"

"Definitely. Today the _Yale Daily News_, tomorrow the world."

"The whole world?"

"Yup."

"Good thing I've got a friend to help me paint it."

..

After the second coat they go out in search of dinner. They find a diner near Old Campus and she treats him to a cheeseburger and a milkshake, "to say thank you."

"It was fun," he says. There's still a little green in his hair. He looks just a little like the badass he tried so hard to be in high school. "I like spending time with you."

"I like spending time with you, too."

They have worked up quite an appetite and eat in silence, for the most part. When at last they have finished their burgers, downed their shakes, slaughtered their fries, Jess says: "So I heard from my mom yesterday."

"Yeah?" Rory smiles. "I like your mom. She's…colorful."

"Right," he says. "That's the word for it."

"Does she call you a lot?"

"Once a week or so." He shrugs. "A lot more than she used to."

"What'd she say?"

He sighs and sits back. "She's pregnant…apparently."

"Wow."

He nods. "And she's going to 'do it right this time.'" He shakes his head. "You know, 'no binge-drinking.'"

"Well…"

"Yeah."

She smiles. "You're gonna be a big brother!"

"Yup."

"Big brother Jess. Aww."

"I guess this means I'm going to be spending more time in Stars Hollow." He taps his fingers against the edge of the table. A gesture she remembers from high school. "The kid's going to need someone sane in its life."

"I was brought up by Stars Hollow and I came out just fine."

"You didn't have TJ for a dad."

"No." She stretches out her hand to cover his, calms the tap of his fingers. "I'm happy about anything that brings you here more often."

"I'm glad."

"Me too."

She pays the bill and drags him out onto the street where a late spring breeze has picked up. "Want a tour of Old Campus?" she asks. "Should be pretty quiet. Everyone's hunkered down with their books."

"Why aren't you?"

"I like to give myself breaks when I'm studying. Let myself absorb. Otherwise the information won't stick. Besides, I've only got one left."

"Excuses, excuses."

They meander along walkways that make her feel eighteen again. They feel pregnant with the academia that thrilled her in those early days at Yale; they remind her of that excitement. "I had a class in that room," she says, pointing, "my sophomore year. And one over there in my freshman year." They pass Durfee. "And that was my freshman dorm."

"I remember."

She turns to look at him, stops on the path. "Oh right." She nods. "I forgot that you came here."

"Not one of my finest moments."

"Not one of mine, either."

She reaches out and takes his hand, doesn't even really think about it until she's done it. And they start walking again.

..

He crashes on their couch and when she wakes up in the morning he's eating cereal with Paris and Doyle. They're fighting about Dave Eggers over the milk.

"He's a pretentious douche-bag."

"But he embraces it."

"That doesn't make him not a pretentious douche-bag."

"But it makes him a tolerable pretentious douche-bag."

She yawns and reaches for a bowl. "I'm siding with Jess," she says.

"Of course you are."

"No Paris, not of course. I just agree that Eggers makes up for being so full of himself by acknowledging that he's a bit full of himself. I mean, he titled his memoir _A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius_."

"Exactly."

"Besides, pretentiousness has nothing to do with writing talent. No one constructs a sentence like Dave Eggers constructs a sentence."

It's a nice feeling, literary discussion over breakfast. She glances at Jess as she takes her first sip of coffee. She's so happy to see him here, in her home, at the table with her friends first thing in the morning. It feels warm and domestic and right.


End file.
